


tower of terror

by shadowdance



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Dreams, Gen, Physical Abuse, Sibling Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowdance/pseuds/shadowdance
Summary: (He is your brother, and his pain is yours to bear.)To keep Miklan from haunting his dreams, Sylvain must climb a tower once more.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier (Background), Sylvain Jose Gautier & Miklan
Comments: 24
Kudos: 147





	tower of terror

**Author's Note:**

> If you're a fan of Miklan, this fic is probably not for you lol. The Sylvain/Ingrid is also one-sided I guess, so it's really, really minor.  
> If you think I should add any more warnings let me know.
> 
> This was translated in chinese [here](https://jiuyaojun.lofter.com/post/1d85c124_1c7fab5ab) by dxx923. thank you!

Sylvain has been looking tired lately.

There are bags under his eyes and his skin is paler, colder. He flinches when Ingrid’s fingers skate lightly on his shoulder-blade, turns his head away when Dimitri starts talking, flinches when Felix nudges him lightly. Of course, this doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Are you okay?” Dimitri asks. Sylvain nods, bites into his bread.

“I’m fine.”

Dimitri doesn’t push it, never does. But Sylvain sees Ingrid and Felix exchange a glance, and it’s amusing on its own—if Ingrid and Felix are agreeing on something, then that means there’s something terribly wrong.

Sylvain knows it, of course. There’s something wrong inside of him, something that’s been cut up, sliced his chest into pieces. There’s something wrong with him.

“Keep it all inside and you’ll end up suffocating,” Felix says, not exactly unkindly. Sylvain almost snaps, _like you’re one to talk,_ but he holds his tongue.

“Yeah, I know.” He makes his voice sound cheerful. It falls flat.

“Sylvain, _tell_ us what’s wrong,” Ingrid says. Her voice is soft, light, encouraging. She and Sylvain have always shared their secrets.

Sylvain shakes his head. “Nothing’s wrong."

“Sylvain—”

“I’m fine _,_ ” Sylvain repeats, and it’s hard enough that silence falls over his friends. “I’m _fine_.”

From another mouth, it means _I’m sorry._

+

Sylvain is in a tower.

It’s tall and old and falling apart; one wall is crumbling into nothing, the debris falling into fog. Sylvain inches closer to the edge, feels the wet wind hit his back, feels the rain splatter against his uniform. It’s cold. It’s like blood. His uniform sticks to his skin stubbornly.

Before him is a monster. Someone with red hair and a scar thrown across his face; when he shifts his expressions, scowls or sneers or scoffs, the scar ripples like a lightning bolt. One eye beams from the darkness, dark and brown and too familiar. It’s like looking in a mirror.

“Hello, baby brother,” Miklan says, and the thunder crashes across his face. “You think I’ll leave you alone?’

And that’s when Sylvain wakes up. Nothing has happened, but his heartbeat is accelerating, as though he tumbled down from that tower, fallen alongside the winds. But he wakes up and he’s alone.

His back is still wet from the winds.

+

“I’m worried about you,” Ingrid says, the next morning. Sylvain clenches his hands.

“Don’t be.”

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says, and _gods_ why is her voice so soft? Sylvain wants her to yell at him, to strike him with her own two fists, to remind him that he’s an awful person. She’s always jabbed him with teases, rolled her eyes in his direction. To see her so kind is something entirely new and entirely uncomfortable. He tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“I’m fine, okay?” he says, louder this time. “He wasn’t a nice guy. I’m glad he’s dead, in fact. Perfectly fine with it.”

Now Ingrid looks mildly uncomfortable. Good, Sylvain thinks. Something is back to normal. But then she lays a hand over his, and Sylvain hisses—her skin is cold against his. Cold like a body’s. Cold like Miklan’s.

“Are you really?”

Lightning flashes in Sylvain’s mind. _Oh my dear baby brother do you think I will leave you alone you think I will EVER leave you alone—_

“Yes,” he says, and shakes Ingrid’s hand off.

+

Sylvain climbs to the top of the tower and there is nobody there.

The walls are boarded up but he can feel the wind seep through the cracks, travel down his spine. The dark is everywhere, but Sylvain knows he’s alone. The shadows don’t make the shape of a body.

Something stomps behind him. He turns around.

Glenn is standing before him—but not Glenn, not really. Because Glenn looks older, the way he never will be—the slope of his jaw is smoother, the light in his eyes is wiser. His hair is cut a little shorter than it was when he died, and the fact he looks so much like Felix hurts Sylvain’s soul.

“Sylvain,” Glenn says, and his voice is kind, sad. “Your brother will be back here the next night.”

Sylvain blinks. There’s a line of red dragged across Glenn’s throat, something thin but deep. It trickles down his throat, slowly, like rain gliding down a new leaf in the morning.

“Why me?” Sylvain asks. He’s talking about Glenn visiting him, but the boy in question does not understand.

“Because he is your brother, and he is yours to bear.”

Sylvain swallows. Something pounds against the walls, like a beast trying to be let in.

“Sylvain.” Glenn crouches down, and Sylvain realizes that he’s on his knees. How long as he been on his knees? He doesn’t know anything, except that this is a dream and Glenn’s throat is bleeding. Still, Glenn presses a hand against Sylvain’s cheek, so kind that it hurts. It’s undeserving, but Sylvain shuts his eyes, breathes in deep.

“Your brother will come back,” Glenn says. “And he wants to make you hurt. You will be at the base of the tower tomorrow, and you will have to climb your way up. It will be painful. Do you think you can bear it?”

_No_ , Sylvain wants to say. _I am tired, so tired, of carrying Miklan’s ghost with me_. Everyone is looking at him strangely, asking these questions over and over: _are you okay? Do you need anything? Talk to me, Sylvain, just talk about it._

But he can’t. Miklan is a ghost that he cannot surrender yet, a ghost who is too heavy for him, yet not one he can lay to rest entirely. Miklan’s hands will always be on him. Always. It makes no difference.

But somehow, he finds himself nodding. Glenn nods, and his mouth slopes upwards in a small smile, one that Sylvain sees everyday. _Felix,_ he thinks, but then Glenn is talking again.

“Good,” he says. “I know you can do it, Sylvain. I believe in you.”

The cut on his throat curves upwards, and bleeds like a real smile.

+

Felix knocks Sylvain’s sword out of his hands. Again. But Sylvain reaches for it anyway, and Felix’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You’re kidding. You actually want keep training?”

Sylvain ignores the disbelief in Felix’s tone, and holds his sword out. “Again.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “You suck,” he sneers. “I should find a better training partner, honestly. It’s like training with a baby.”

Sylvain glowers, and then takes a swing. Felix blocks it without even blinking.

“I know you’re better than this, Sylvain,” he says, and it’s such a shockingly _kind_ thing to say that Sylvain stops. His tone is harsh, but Sylvain knows Felix, and he knows how to dissect these words apart, knows what Felix means is _I’m worried about you, are you okay?_

Sylvain wants to tell him then. About his dream, about Glenn. Glenn with his cut throat, with his words of warning, with the dream that he’ll have to carry out tonight. _I saw your brother, Felix, I saw him._

But he meets Felix’s eyes, and he wonders: _how can I even tell you this?_ Because Felix never dreams of his brother, never even talks of his brother. Sylvain knows he’s hurting underneath, but any time he tries to draw close, Felix shoves him away. Too many thorns are wrapped around that topic, and all Sylvain can do is prick himself.

“A girl caught my eye,” Sylvain excuses instead. It’s weak, and he knows it. Felix rolls his eyes and throws his sword at him.

“Again.”

Sylvain trains until the exhaustion bleeds into his bones, until he can barely keep standing. The whispers of a dream beckon to him.

+

When Sylvain closes his eyes, this dream comes to him:

He is standing outside of a tower.

Lightning crashes against the sky, and the wind howls against the rocks. The smooth cobblestone of the tower is wet, darkened with rain. Sylvain blinks, and the storm hits his face, soaks his uniform, his hair.

There’s a small wooden door, beckoning him to come closer. Sylvain swallows, and he crosses the expanse, towards the tower. His shoes squelch the mud underneath, and the door handle is cold and smooth against his hands, slick with rain.

He opens the door—

+

—and he’s falling.

Sylvain lands on the ground, hard. His bones ache and his head is spinning and he’s sprawled in a dirty puddle of water. The light is a circle above him, cut like a halo.

_Oh no,_ Sylvain thinks.

He’s been here before.

“Stay down there,” Miklan shouts, ringing from the walls around him. Sylvain stands up shakily, his uniform dripping. All he sees are dark cobblestone walls, damp from the rain. He accidentally kicks a rusted bucket.

“You think you can crawl out, huh, punk?” Miklan’s voice is magnified, washing over him like a wave. Sylvain clamps his hands over his ears, but Miklan’s voice seeps through. “Why don’t you activate your stupid crest, huh? You’re nothing without it now, aren’t you?”

“Stop,” Sylvain whispers, but he sounds younger than he truly is. “Stop it.”

“Just stay down!” Miklan’s voice lashes out, and Sylvain flinches, stumbling backwards. His back hits the wall. “Nobody wants you up here, anyway! If they really cared, they’d come running—but nobody’s gonna run for you tonight, little brother. Nobody’s here but me.”

In spite of himself, Sylvain manages a dry smile. “My worst nightmare.”

“You’re _never_ gonna be able to pull yourself up, little brother.” Miklan’s voice shreds through that tiny scrap of humor Sylvain clings to. “You’ve always depended on someone else to help you. Always had everything handed to you. So how are you going to escape _this_ time?”

Sylvain lets out a deep breath. _C’mon, Sylvain, think. Think._

Last time he had screamed until the well was filled with his own voice, practically overflowing with it. Ingrid and Felix had come running, and then Dimitri was there with Glenn, and Glenn had tossed the rope down, Glenn had pulled him out of there and into the arms of all his friends. But Miklan is right—Glenn isn’t there now, and Ingrid and Felix and Dimitri aren’t, either. It’s just Sylvain and Miklan. Miklan, saying the words that Sylvain loathes.

“How are you going to dig yourself out this time, stupid spoiled bitch?” Miklan taunts, somewhere above. Sylvain wants to squeeze his eyes shut against it. Instead, he looks around.

The walls are cobblestone. Okay, he knows that. And they’re wet, so his grip will be slippery. But the stones jut out at odd angles, easy enough to hold onto, to place his feet upon and haul himself up. The rain will make things slippery, but it’s better to try than to not.

Sylvain closes his hand around the wall. Rain dribbles down, but his grip is somehow steady, strong. He hauls himself up, and his feet do not slip. Slowly, steadily, he begins climbing.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Miklan’s voice makes him lose his grip momentarily; the stones become slick, and Sylvain almost slides down. Almost. “You’re really going to _climb_ out? Is that your master plan?”

Sylvain grits his teeth. He regains his footing, and pulls himself up. The light is still far from him, but it’s minimally closer than it was from the ground.

“How stupid are you?” Miklan’s voice makes the walls tremble, and Sylvain nearly lets go again, almost plummets back down. “Can you not think of any other way up? Always relying on someone to pull you up, are you?”

Sylvain clenches his jaw until his teeth ache, until his bones feel like they’re going to crack. He keeps scaling the wall. The light seems to grow brighter, just out of reach.

He’s about halfway up when Miklan sneers, “There’s nobody waiting for you at the top, you know. Nobody knows you’re down here, and nobody cares that you’re—”

“Miklan,” Sylvain grits out. His feet are kicking wildly at the air, and the stones feel wet underneath his fingertips, but he refuses to let go. Keeps holding on. “Shut up _._ ”

It’s silent for a moment. And then the walls shake with unbridled anger, and Sylvain trembles with it.

“Shut up? You’re telling me to _stop_ —c’mon, baby brother. I’m the only one here for you right now, isn’t that nice? You always wanted to spend quality time with me. Or is that your worst fear?”

Sylvain wants to let go. To fall back to the ground, to land in the muddy water. To lay there and drown under Miklan’s words, allow himself to be swallowed up. He feels impossibly small in this well, as though the world could crush him. As though anything could crush him.

_It will be painful. Can you bear it?_

Sylvain swallows, and keeps his footing.

Miklan hurls insults down on him like rocks, trying to knock him off the ledges. _Weak,_ he hisses, and Sylvain’s foot slips. _Pathetic,_ and Sylvain almost misses a stone, almost goes back into the darkness. _Good for nothing,_ but this time Sylvain keeps his footing.

The light is almost there.

“You know you can’t escape me, right?” Miklan’s voice makes the entire well shake, and Sylvain shuts his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, baby brother.”

It’s this that almost makes Sylvain slip, almost sends him back into the darkness. _I’m not going anywhere, baby brother_ —and that was true, because when Sylvain crawled out of the well, Miklan stood in the back, face contorted in a loathing sneer. Miklan wasn’t gone after that. The well incident was only the start. Sylvain at least had Glenn and Ingrid and Felix and Dimitri with him, though, always flanking him. Now he’s alone. Alone, and clinging to the side of a well.

“I’m _never leaving you,_ baby brother.”

In another life this would’ve been kind, almost comforting. But this is Miklan, and nothing he says is ever comforting. Sylvain has grown tired of his words, of hiding from him.

“Well? Don’t you have something to say, baby brother?” Miklan goads, and Sylvain’s hands ache, wet from sweat and the stones. He takes a deep breath.

The light is within reach. He’s not going to let Miklan drag him back down.

“Go to hell, Miklan,” he grits out, and pulls himself up towards the light.

+

He tumbles out onto the second floor. It’s empty and cold, bitter and barren—but familiar. It looks like a ghost of a living room, though. The couch cushions are torn up, as though a beast sunk its claws in it, the fire is waning, the curtains hang askew, and the ground is covered in dust.

But it looks like home. If a beast had broken into the house and torn it all up, anyway.

Sylvain stands up. He can feel that he’s not alone, feels a pair of eyes on him—but Miklan isn’t hiding in the shadows, and his eyes do not gleam in the darkness. Still, Sylvain feels as though he’s being watched. He rakes his fingers through his hair, takes a deep breath.

And that’s when he sees the paintings.

The first one is of his parents, eyes focusing on things just out of reach. Their hands are linked together, but Sylvain sees no love in that tight grip, no sign of affection captured in the brush strokes. But he’s not surprised. He always knew that his parents had an arranged marriage, that they loved their son more than they loved each other.

The second one is of himself. Sylvain blinks, staring at his own reflection. The boy in the painting looks older, solemner, proud and wise. Like the heir his father always wanted, even if Sylvain is nothing like that. He’s not stiff, not cold, not serious, not the stranger in the painting. But both boys bear a Crest, and that is similar enough.

The last one has three claw marks through the canvas dragged over the face, rendering the subject unrecognizable. Sylvain can’t see the boy’s eyes. But he feels them hook into his back, and his body turns cold.

When he turns around, Miklan gazes back. For a moment, it’s deathly silent, the only sound coming from the sputtering fire.

Then Miklan’s fist sinks into Sylvain’s jaw.

“I hate you,” he snarls, watching Sylvain crumple against the wall, hand flying up to his face. “Get up, _brother._ ”

“Miklan,” Sylvain gasps out. “Miklan—”

“You got it all.” Miklan’s voice quakes with familiar anger, hatred woven in every word. “You didn’t even do anything, just got lucky enough to be born with a stupid crest. You never wanted to be heir—you were just born and _made_ heir. Given everything that should’ve been mine. The crest, the title, our parents’ love…”

Sylvain does not miss the way Miklan’s voice wobbles in the last three words. He forces himself to his feet, but Miklan shoves him again, hard enough that Sylvain hears something crack. His skull? The painting frame? He can’t tell. His head begins to throb.

“I’m sorry,” he ekes out, and anger flashes against Miklan’s face. His hands grasp Sylvain’s uniform, and throw him against the wall again.

“Sorry? You’re _sorry?_ You think _sorry_ will make this all better? I hate you, I hate you, sorry won’t fix shit, I _hate you—_ ”

This is something Sylvain heard everyday growing up, so it’s not unfamiliar. Still, though, a bolt of hurt goes through his chest. He swallows.

“Come on, Miklan,” he snaps, and he’s surprised by how loud his voice is. “Did you always hate me?”

Miklan’s face twists in a sneer. “Someone had to. Your friends thought you were perfect, our parents thought you could do no wrong, all because of your stupid little—”

“Miklan, _think._ ” Desperation leaks into Sylvain’s tone, something he’s never heard before. He hates it, how vulnerable he sounds, yet he can’t stop. Miklan wants pain, so he’ll give him pain. “You couldn’t have—did you always hate me? Was there ever a moment, in your life, that you were—that you could’ve loved me? That you cared about me?” His voice is cracking. He hates it. Miklan doesn’t deserve this vulnerability.

And yet—Miklan stumbles back as though Sylvain has hit him, as though he’s found a weak spot. His face contorts, a mask of anger crumbling to reveal something vulnerable underneath, and when Sylvain reaches out tentatively, reaches out to help him up—

_‘A baby brother?’ Miklan’s eyes are wide and guiltless, like stars in a new night sky. ‘I’m getting a baby brother?’_

_Mother smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘Yes, baby,’ she coos. ‘You’re going to have a baby brother.’_

_‘Maybe this one will have a crest,’ Father mutters in the corner, and a splinter goes through Miklan’s heart. He’s not stupid—five years old and he knows the importance of crests, knows that his father yearns for a child with one. Bear a child with a crest, Father prays everyday. Miklan prays for the opposite._

_‘I want him to be just like me,’ he declares, and Mother’s eyebrows draw upwards. She slips a short laugh._

_‘Just like you?’_

_‘Yes.’_

_‘With hair like yours?’ Her hands run through his messy red hair._

_‘Yes.’_

_‘Eyes like yours?’ she taps his chin up._

_‘Yes.’_

_‘Crestless blood, like yours?’ his father mutters, and Miklan’s smile stretches wide, thin, wide, thin._

_‘Yes!’ he cries, and squirms in his seat. ‘I want him to be just like me!’_

Miklan’s hands are on Sylvain’s shoulders again. He shoves him away, as though he can’t stand to be near his brother.

“Get out.” His voice is low, trembling with anger. His whole body is shaking. Sylvain swallows.

“Miklan, I—” There’s an apology on his tongue, something to smooth it all over. But Miklan looks up, and his face darkens into a scowl.

“Get out!” he screams, and Sylvain jerks back. He’s heard Miklan angry and heard Miklan upset—but he’s never heard him _sad._ “Get out, I don’t—I will _never_ forgive you, get out, I hate you, _I hate you—_ ”

Sylvain backs away. Slowly. For once, Miklan does not move to chase him.

“I’m sorry,” he ekes out, but Miklan isn’t listening. Never has listened. Sylvain knows he won’t start now.

He turns on his heel and flees. Miklan’s cries of rage do not follow him through the door.

+

The third floor is a hallway. A familiar hallway, a place that feels like home; the corridor is long and dark, almost cold and unfriendly. Yet the pattern of the walls are different, and the shadow Sylvain casts looks odd on the walls, like he’s a stranger in the house. He twists his head, trying to remember where this place resides in his memory.

Through a door, someone lets out a sob.

Ingrid. Ingrid crying, the sobs muffled yet still seeping through the door. Sylvain remembers this sound; it was the only noise Ingrid could make, in the weeks following the Tragedy. The door is shut, but Sylvain can hear Ingrid crying, hear her grief slip out the door; it sends a wave of sympathy down Sylvain’s spine. He can hear her crying. He can hear _her._

Sylvain reaches out, knocks on the door. Ingrid’s sobbing doesn’t cease.

“Ingrid,” he tries, softly. “Ingrid, hey. _Ingrid_.”

If anything, the sobs amplify even louder. Sylvain tries for the door, but the knob is locked, and all he can do is shake it frantically. Ingrid starts crying louder.

“Ingrid,” Sylvain says, and he knows he shouldn’t be panicking, but it comes out all worried anyway. “Ingrid, it’s me. Ingrid, please, open the door—”

“She can’t hear you.”

Sylvain stiffens. A shadow casts long and wide over him, threatening to suffocate him. Slowly, he turns around.

Miklan stands there, one hand curled around the Lance of Ruin. It shudders in his grasp, glowing orange in the dark, gleaming with power. It strikes Sylvain how Miklan can’t wield the Lance right, how Miklan shouldn’t be able to use it—yet it looks so right in his hands, like it belongs there, clenched in his fist. Sylvain’s stomach overturns.

“Miklan,” he says cautiously. “What are you doing here?”

Miklan rolls his eyes. His scar rolls violently too, like lightning striking the ocean.

“You couldn’t help her,” he sneers, and his gaze flicks to the door. “You couldn’t do anything right, could you? Couldn’t ease her pain. Couldn’t say the right words. All you really wanted to do was help her, and you couldn’t even do that.”

Sylvain lets go of the doorknob, slowly. His hand feels cold.

“I tried,” he says weakly, and Miklan sneers.

“Out of your own selfish desire, I’m sure. Tell me, brother, were you happy Glenn died?”

A wave of coldness slams down Sylvain’s spine, anger spilling in his veins. Behind the door, Ingrid’s cries turn even louder.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Miklan scoffs. There’s blood trickling down his temple, but Sylvain hasn’t even laid a hand on him. “She was something you couldn’t have,” he says, jerking to the door. “But things always worked out for you, didn’t it? Now you had an opening with her. Now you could _have_ her. You always got what you wanted, in the end.”

“I didn’t want Glenn _dead_ ,” Sylvain grits out, the words aching with truth. “I didn’t ever—”

But Miklan isn’t listening. Never has, and never will.

“You always wanted what you can’t have, huh?” he pants. Blood is pouring down his face. “You wanted that little blonde brat, I knew it, I knew it!”

Sylvain’s heart tightens. Ingrid’s sobs have all but diminished now. This is bad. He needs to cling onto her voice.

“You can’t have her,” Miklan sneers. “You’re always making messes for her, always ruining her own life. Did you come here out of pure worry, or just selfishness? You were so used to getting what you wanted, brother. You wanted her, and now she’s here.”

It hurts more than Sylvain thought it would. Still, he stands, somewhat unsteadily.

“This isn’t about Ingrid,” he says carefully. “I know it’s not. It’s about wanting.”

Miklan sneers, but does not say he’s wrong.

“I came for her, Miklan.” Sylvain shuts his eyes. “I didn’t want anything. There were things I wanted, but not here—”

“Why weren’t you be satisfied with what you have?” Miklan snarls, and his fist connects with Sylvain’s nose.

Sylvain stumbles. Miklan looms over him again, his right hand clenched in a fist.

“You had everything!” he roars, and a blow hits Sylvain’s ear, hard enough that he feels the ringing. “You had everything, I had nothing, and yet you were like a little spoiled brat and didn’t appreciate it—you didn’t want anything you had! Not your crest, not your inheritance, not the Lance of Ruin. You _always_ wanted what you couldn’t have, you’re such a stupid, ignorant, spoiled little brat—”

Sylvain realizes he’s on the floor when the wooden boards creak in his ear. Miklan hovers over him, one hand pinning Sylvain down, the other gripping the Lance of Ruin. His spit lands on Sylvain’s face, and Sylvain grimaces.

“What could you even want?” Miklan hisses. “You had everything, spoiled—”

“Miklan!” Sylvain writhes under his brother’s grip, but Miklan’s hands dig into his shoulders, keeping him down. “Of course I wanted things, I—I know! But do you want to know what I wanted the most?”

“What _you_ wanted the most?” Miklan sneers. The Lance of Ruin scrapes against Sylvain’s throat. “What could _you_ possibly—”

“All I ever wanted was to be your friend!”

Time slows down. Miklan’s hands grow slack on his shoulders, and Sylvain scrambles in a sitting position, gulping down air, breathing hard. His skin aches, but that’s nothing compared to the emotions flickering across Miklan’s face—shock and disbelief and maybe, _maybe_ regret. For one moment, a glimmer of hope rises in Sylvain’s chest.

But then Miklan’s expression settles on anger, and he rears his fist back. Sylvain barely has time to cover his face before Miklan’s punch burns into his skin.

“You _lie_!” Miklan screams, and it sounds so beastly that Sylvain curls into himself. “You worthless piece of shit, you’re lying to me, _stop lying to me—_ ”

Sylvain shuts his eyes, grits his teeth. _It’s not a lie,_ he wants to scream, but Miklan won’t listen to the truth. Won’t listen to him. He never listens, nobody listens to—

“Sylvain?”

Ingrid’s voice is soft, lilting, and Sylvain freezes. Miklan does too, one hand raised in midair. The Lance of Ruin glows in his hand, and then dims.

“Sylvain, is that you?” Ingrid asks, and Sylvain almost cries out of relief. Because—Ingrid had reached for him. In his memory, Ingrid had opened her door for him. Ingrid had _heard_ him.

Sylvain presses a hand against his throbbing jaw. “Yeah,” he manages, keeping his eyes pinned on Miklan. His memory rolls out before him, and he knows what he’s going to say before it leaves his mouth. “It’s me, Ingrid.”

Miklan’s gaze rolls violently, back and forth. Sylvain inches close to the door, as though he can melt into the framing.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says, voice curious, “what are you doing here?”

Miklan watches with hate-filled eyes. Sylvain swallows. _All I ever wanted was to be your friend_ —that was true, the truest thing he could’ve ever given. He knows Miklan doesn’t believe it, though. Refuses to believe it. His heart hurts.

“I,” he pants, gazing at his brother, “I was worried about you. Can you let me in?”

Ingrid is silent, and Sylvain feels his heart stutter in his chest, disappointment curdling there. Maybe he’s remembering it wrong—maybe he’ll be with Miklan forever—sink under this layer of pain—

But then the door creaks open.

Sylvain doesn’t know if Ingrid is there, or if it’s just a wisp of his memory, or if it’s just her voice that he’s clinging to. But Miklan sets himself in a charging position, and the Lance of Ruin glows violently in his hands. Sylvain can let Miklan beat him up, sure. But he’s not going to give Miklan a chance to hurt his friends.

He tears away from Miklan, races through the door and up the stairs. In the distance, he hears Ingrid close the door once more.

+

There’s a monster on the fourth floor.

Sylvain sees it in the darkness, sees how it moves. Its shadow is heavy, its footsteps cause the floor to shake. A knot of fear clenches Sylvain’s chest.

The jaws click open. “S-y-l-v-a-in,” it rasps, and Sylvain shudders. “Why-do-you-cower-from-me?”

Okay. So this beast can talk. But killing the beast had made Miklan leave the first time, so maybe he just has to defeat this one too. Somehow.

“So this is you,” Sylvain says, as brave as his voice can muster. The beast laughs.

“You-recognize-your— _brother_?”

“I’ve always known you were a beast,” Sylvain says. It’s cruel, and he winces. “You just never really looked like one.”

The beast laughs. It sounds like a man dying, sputtering out his last gasps of air. It’s horrible.

“You-are-confusing-me— _baby brother_ ,” it says. “You-feed-me-apologies-but-call-me-a-monster. Do-you-feel-remorse-for-me-or-do-you-hate-me? Which-one-do-you-really—feel?”

“I can feel both, can’t I?” Sylvain swallows. “It’s possible to hate you, and to be remorseful.”

“ _Baby brother_ —I-know-you-cannot-live-with-both.” The beast bares its teeth at him. “One-side-will-always-win.”

“Then, I mean, I guess I hate you.” Sylvain backs against the wall. The beast looms closer.

“So-you-are-not-truly-sorry?”

“No. I am.”

The beast lunges. Sylvain braces himself, but all he feels is hot breath against his face, the dampness of the beast’s spit.

“ _Baby brother_ —I’m-not-hiding-that-I’m-a-beast. So-when-will— _you_ —realize-that-you-are-just-as-bad-as-me?”

Sylvain recoils. The beast lets out a laugh.

“I’m not—I’m not like you.”

“Yes-I-know.” The beast rolls its eyes violently, flashing red like blood. “Father-never-failed-to-remind-me.”

“No,” Sylvain says, and somehow his voice is strong. “I mean—let’s say the roles were reversed.” It’s something he hates to dwell on, but he forces himself to, lets those awful thoughts rise to his head. “Let’s say you had the Crest—”

“And-you-would-understand- _my_ -pain.” The beast’s voice rises. “Tell-me— _baby brother_ —how-could-you-not-be-consumed-by-hatred? Think-about— _me._ You-never-did. _You_ —are-selfish. And-yet-that-is-just—like— _me._ ”

Sylvain flinches. The beast laughs; there is blood in its mouth.

“You-are-more-like-me-than-you-know.”

Something snaps in Sylvain’s heart, taut and cold. He shudders, and his brother laughs, cruel and heartbreaking. The last thing Sylvain ever wants to be is like his brother, cruel and selfish and egotistical. Sylvain doesn’t want to be like him—like _that._

Yet he is. At least, that’s the image he projects outwards. But buried underneath all that, the rawness of the truth sits close to his heart. Something Sylvain has thought about before, and doesn’t like to think about. But he unearths it now, brings it to light. He has to.

“Let’s say you had the crest,” he continues, as though the beast has not spoken. “You would’ve had…everything you wanted. Our parents’ love. The position as heir. A noble family, a good family. Girls eyeing you. You would’ve had a good life, sure.”

“Rubbing-salt-in-the-wound,” the beast snarls. Sylvain shuts his eyes.

“And maybe…maybe you would’ve had a brother who hated you. Maybe…a brother who lived in your shadow. And you know what?” he’s talking too fast now, well aware of how close his brother is. Well aware of how the beast could snap him in half. “That’s okay. Because—because—I’m already living as one, anyway.” His voice is a whisper.

The beast rears back. Tilts its head to the side. Sylvain takes a deep breath.

“They just see my stupid crest. That’s all you ever saw, too.” He locks eyes with his brother. “And I know…I just wish you could’ve looked past that. I wish you could’ve seen…we were alike, yeah. You say that like it’s a bad thing. But there was more, you know. You just didn’t care to look.”

“You—had— _everything_ ,” the beast hisses. Sylvain takes a deep breath.

“People saw you as the disgraced son,” he says. “People see me as the perfect son. C’mon, Miklan, use a brain. Nobody saw us for who we were. We could’ve been…we could’ve been close, okay? Because we had more in common than you thought.”

He’s holding it now, baring his soul to the beast of his brother. The beast cocks its head to the side, and for one moment, Sylvain expects him to attack—expects to have claws rake through his heart, to feel pain across his neck, dragged over his chest.

But the beast lumbers down. Settles in the shadows. Closes its eyes.

“You-disgust-me— _baby brother_ ,” it sneers. “We-are-not-the-same-after-all.”

Behind Sylvain, a door slides open. Yet it feels unfinished, somehow. Like the threads cannot be tied up here.

“Only because you refuse to see it,” Sylvain says, and darts through the open door.

+

The top of the tower looks like this:

It’s tall and old and falling apart. One wall is crumbling into nothing, the debris falling into fog. Sylvain steps towards the edge once more, and the feeling of the wind makes his heart churn.

_Oh,_ he thinks. _It’s Conand Tower._

Conand Tower, the place where Miklan made his last stand, the place where Sylvain threw a spear into his brother’s throat. The place where Miklan turned into the beast he always was, the place where Miklan made his home. The place where Miklan tried to break his brother, and is still trying to break him, even beyond the grave.

“You made it.”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Sylvain turns around, and Miklan stares back, sitting on the ground. His armor is dented, he has no weapon, but the glint in his eyes is still burning with hatred. He stands up, slowly.

Sylvain’s fists ache. He’s tired of fighting. But he knows Miklan, and he knows his brother won’t go down without a fight.

“Miklan,” he says, desperately. “Can’t we just stop this here?”

Miklan’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you miss me?”

Between the cracked stones, the storm whistles into the room. Sylvain breathes in deeply, rakes his fingers through his hair.

“Listen, Miklan,” Sylvain says carefully. He watches Miklan’s face, sees how his brother’s eye twitches. “Listen to me. You never did. Please, I know you’re hurting, and I know—nothing was right. I understand, I’m—”

“Shut _up._ ” Miklan’s voice drips with venom—a warning sign. But all Sylvain does is smile humorlessly.

“Brother,” he says, and he watches Miklan jerk back, surprised. “I’m sorry.”

A pause. Rain lashes through the window, but Sylvain is focused only on the storm on Miklan’s face, watching how the anger seeps through the cracks, through reason, through any idea of love.

It doesn’t matter what he says, Sylvain realizes. He is offering the truest apology he could, but Miklan won’t listen, doesn’t listen. Even in death, Miklan is so blinded by his falsified truths that he won’t listen to anything else. Won’t care to hear anything else.

_Miklan doesn’t care._

“Brother,” Sylvain tries, one last time. Thunder crashes across the sky.

Miklan charges.

He slams Sylvain against the cracked wall, hard enough that Sylvain’s head spins. His hands are tight on Sylvain’s collar, and Sylvain gasps.

“I don’t care what you’re sorry for,” he hisses in Sylvain’s ear. “I won’t forgive you.”

Sylvain smiles grimly. “Won’t, or can’t?”

Miklan punches him. Sylvain’s nose explodes in pain.

“Yeah, okay, stupid question. It’s pretty much the same thing with you.”

Miklan snarls. Abruptly, he lets go, and Sylvain sits up, rubbing his nose gingerly. Miklan’s hand is already forming a fist.

“Get up,” he sneers, and Sylvain shakes his head.

“No.”

Miklan’s eyes narrow.

“Get up. I want a challenge.”

Sylvain sits up. He shakes his head.

“Get up!” Miklan roars, and he lunges forward, his fist driving towards Sylvain’s face. “Get up or I’ll _make you_.”

Sylvain catches Miklan’s fist in his.

“Miklan,” he pants, and it’s ragged, broken and exhausted, but shining with truth. _“I don’t owe you anything.”_

Miklan’s eyes bulge. He staggers back, his body trembling like he was struck by lightning. A wail escapes his throat, something raw, young, primal. He falls to his knees, and purple smoke shrouds him, just as it did when he turned to a beast; it snakes up his arms, spreads across his chest, seeps under his skin and into his throat—

And then he’s gone. All Sylvain can hear is the steady drip of the rain, flooding against the tiles. He shuts his eyes, finally allowing exhaustion to flood through his body. His fists are bloodied, his jaw is bruised. He is so, so tired.

A door clicks open.

Sylvain frowns. Miklan is gone, no longer with him; the dream should end now. Yet there’s a door tucked to the side, beckoning to him. He can’t see what’s on the other side; everything is dark.

There’s nothing to do but go up. Sylvain takes a deep breath, and pushes himself to his feet.

+

The top of the tower is cool, brushing a soft wind against Sylvain’s bloody knuckles. He blinks, and the Goddess Tower falls into place—the proud arches, the sweeping windows, the school lit up below. Everything is quiet, beautiful. Conand Tower is gone, and Sylvain is back in comforting familiarity.

And leaning against an arch is Glenn.

His head is tilted up towards the sky, but when Sylvain steps forward, he turns around. The red line across his throat is gone, but his face still looks older, his eyes a little wiser, his hair a little shorter.

But his smile—small, soft, gentle—is still the same.

“Sylvain,” he says, and steps closer to him. His smile is warm, and Sylvain wants to break down, weep until the pain leaves his muscles, his lungs, his hands, his body. But he doesn’t want Glenn to think he’s weak, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Is he gone?” he asks, too afraid to speak Miklan’s name. “He’s gone now, right?”

Glenn hesitates. Then shakes his head. Sylvain’s heart sinks.

“I thought…” he hesitates. “I thought he’d be gone after this.”

“I didn’t say that,” Glenn says, and his eyes are sad. “Your brother will never leave you, Sylvain. Not really. He’ll always be with you.”

Sylvain closes his eyes. His fists throb with pain or anger or something in between. “Then what was the point of this?”

“To prove that you can bear it.”

Sylvain opens his eyes. Glenn gazes at him with wisdom in his eyes, something that he never could’ve learned in his lifetime. Sylvain wonders what death could’ve taught Glenn, then. What Glenn chose to learn, and Miklan did not.

“Sylvain,” Glenn says, and his voice is sad. “Listen. Your brother will always haunt you. But I know you won’t let yourself be dragged down by him. You _can’t_ be dragged down by him.”

Sylvain takes in a ragged breath. Below, the school lights shimmer like the stars in the sky.

“Why couldn’t _you_ stay?” he asks, and surprise flickers across Glenn’s face. “Why’d my stupid brother have to stay and haunt me?”

Glenn smiles. “I’m still here,” he says, and taps to his heart. “But not here.” He taps his mind. “Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I’m truly gone. You don’t always need me in your mind. You’re stronger than you know.”

The wind stings at Sylvain’s eyes, blurring his vision. Glenn laughs, sharply, softly. It seems as though his body flickers for a moment, as though the wind goes right through him.

“Just weep. I know you want to,” he teases, and Sylvain blinks.

“I’m not—I’m not—”

But that’s all he can get out before bursting into tears. Glenn laughs, and he pulls the older boy closer to him, lets Sylvain’s tears soak his shirt. He whispers something. It might’ve been or _I’m still here_ or _you’re okay_ or _goodbye_ , but Sylvain doesn’t hear. All that matters is Glenn’s voice, and the softness of it.

He closes his eyes to the sound of Glenn whispering into the wind, and the gentle thrum of his heart, still beating in his dreams.

+

Someone is knocking at his door.

Sylvain rolls on his side. His hands still throb with pain, and his bones ache in a way he cannot describe. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, but then someone is talking. Yelling, actually.

“I know you’re in there!” Ingrid’s voice is loud, but tinged with worry. Sylvain blinks, blearily. “C’mon, Sylvain, it’s been like ten hours, _I know you’re there—_ ”

“Maybe he died from your incessant nagging,” someone suggests. Felix. There’s a loud smack, and then, “What? It was just a suggestion.”

“You are _not funny_ ,” Ingrid snaps. Something about her tone forces Sylvain to sit up.

He’s in his room. The tower is gone. Miklan is not; he still lingers in the back of Sylvain’s mind. _I am still here_ echoes in his mind, but he’s not sure who is saying it, him or Miklan’s. Somehow it doesn’t matter.

“Sylvain?” Ingrid knocks again. “Are you in there?”

Sylvain runs his fingers through his hair. _I’m still here,_ Glenn had said. The words ricochet in his ribcage.

“Yeah,” Sylvain says, and reaches for the door. “Don’t worry. I’m still here.”


End file.
